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8 Girl, Trees, Paper Balloons 1783: How quiet and still the people on the ground seemed, said the first people to rise in balloons. Quiet as milk. Somewhere the son of the son of the son of the man who was the last person to let go of the line so the first balloon could be free of us is lighting a cigarette. Heaven is a movie— even the audience smokes Lucky Strikes. They have a box there for my memories and in case I burn up in the light like a faulty meteor I have given them two or three things to keep such as my mother’s saddle oxfords and the one about the man described in the newspaper who was dead for three days in the ocean but woke up, alive, and the one about when the snow in moonlight was whiter than washing machines behind the dump, and the one playing now, the one with woodwinds rising as maples seedpod the tattoos on the slim shoulders of the girl kissing me like my mouth is a parachute just about to open. ...

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